


In Holy League

by Gileonnen



Category: Coriolanus - Shakespeare
Genre: Cameo Borgias, First Italian War AU, Gen, Loose Historicity, Martial Disillusionment, Neapolitans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the French out of Naples, Aufidius had slowly lost his enthusiasm for Rome's wars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Holy League

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speakmefair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakmefair/gifts).



They had harried the French out of Naples, driving them forth bleating like sheep with what spoil they could carry. The blessings of the Pope had been on them, in those heady days; the men had been eager for vengeance against their conquerors, eager to feel themselves victors in their turn.

In the first days of the repulse, Tullus Aufidius had wrested his mother's ruby necklace from the hands of a poxy soldier and then drawn his sword across the bastard's neck. It had not returned his mother to him, but it had made the rage burn low and warm in his belly--and he had ridden that rage through Rome, through the very streets of that holiest of cities, until he had felt himself about to burn to a cinder with the heat of it.

On the banks of the Taro, though, with the rain coming down hard and the French artillery gleaming wetly from across the river, he found that he could not coax that ember of passion to new flame. The rain had dampened the lust for battle among even the proud Venetians, so eager to serve (and to pillage) in the name of Alexander VI. At least the damn Frenchmen's powder would be too wet for use, in rain like this; it was little enough consolation, when the League of Venice would fare no better.

 _The general makes a mistress of him,_ his comrades muttered, when they thought him close enough to hear but not to identify the speaker--when they were tired of mocking his speech, or his manner of dress. Jealousy, Martius would have called it, and perhaps this was the truth; every soldier, feeling his own smallness, sought to dishonour the undeserving great. Surely Aufidius could not have earned his place through any stratagem but buggery--for what other reason could the great Martius have heaped accolades and offices upon a Neapolitan?

For what other reason, when they had forgotten how recently Martius had been a disgrace?

Disgrace, Tullus Aufidius had learned, had no staying power when disgraceful conduct brought victory. Had Martius lost Naples, he would have been a villain; at best he would have been put to death, and at worst excommunicated entirely. In regaining Naples against all odds and express commands, though, Martius became the Pope's darling--the commander of the armies of the Holy League, the bosom companion of the Papal bastards. Among soldiers and cardinals, ladies and kings, Cesare Borgia proclaimed Caius Martius his especial friend.

There was no telling the Venetians what joy it had brought to Naples when Martius had arrived with a small band of cavalry and six long guns, nor how the people had cheered when the cannonades had sounded at very hour of the French king's coronation as King of Naples. "Ruin us! Damn your souls, ruin us all!" Aufidius had cried, raising his voice with the rest as the French soldiers had tried to herd the crowd away from the king. Someone had thrown a paving-stone, which had missed; someone else had thrown a brick, which had knocked the crown tumbling to the eager hands of the audience.

More Neapolitans than Frenchmen had been killed in those first hours, and yet Aufidius could not find it in his heart to blame Martius for it. The riots that followed had killed far more than the cannon fire, and the burning had killed more still.

He had offered Martius his home and his bed, embracing him like a brother; Martius hadn't asked whose blood stained the sheets, or why Aufidius could not bring himself to sleep there.

They had harrowed Naples as though it were Hell, and afterward they had walked together into the bay and cleansed themselves of blood and ash.

"I won't forget this," Martius had promised him, as the low waves lapped at their bare shoulders and the sun struck fire from his eyes. "If you want to drive the dogs out forever--you'll always have a place at my side." More than anything else, Aufidius had burned to follow him, joining strength to strength until they were insuperable together.

He shifted in his place, watching as the rain fell in sheets upon the Taro. 

His boots were worn through, and he was a very long way from home.


End file.
